


It's Only Me

by chanderson



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, McLennon, References to Drugs, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 15:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14793026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: Snapshots of John and Paul's tumultuous relationship as it progresses through the years. Chronicles 1961-1976.“It’s only me,” John reminds him. “You’re okay.”





	It's Only Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends. This fic is a series of vignettes. Some are longer than others with more dialogue/narrative. Mostly in Paul's POV but a couple are in John's. This is pretty sad b/c I love sadness. 
> 
> The use of the "it's only me" motif in the Cincinnati vignette has a different connotation from the way it's used in rest of the story but whatever. I couldn't rlly work it in any other way. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_ "He was always a very warm guy, John. His bluff was all on the surface. He used to take his glasses down — those granny glasses — take 'em down and say, 'It's only me.'" _

_ -Paul McCartney, Rolling Stone Magazine, 1986 _

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

**Paris, France - 1961**

John first raises the subject in the back booth of a dingy pub in Paris, and Paul reluctantly agrees to give it a try. 

He asks John to buy him a fifth of whiskey on the way back to the hotel, and he has to chug down almost the entire bottle before he can even take his clothes off. He feels John’s eyes on him as he methodically goes around and turns off all the lights, pulls the curtains closed so only a sliver of blue light runs across the bed like a river on a map.

Paul needs the first time to be dark. 

When they finally do it, it’s sloppy and clumsy, with Paul teetering over John as they rut against each other, panting breathlessly until they come one after the other. John keeps up a long stream of words during it, chanting Paul’s name over and over again. Paul stays completely silent. 

Afterward, once they’ve collapsed back against the bed and caught their breath, John reaches for Paul and pulls him close. He tries to kiss him, but Paul turns his head, cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

“Not yet,” he slurs, rolling over to face the wall. He can feel John’s eyes on him. John sighs and strokes Paul’s side.

“It’s only me, Paul.” His words are a soft exhale against the back of Paul’s neck. Paul swallows past the lump in his throat and scoots into the curve of John’s body, grabbing the hand he has resting on his stomach.

The next morning, Paul wakes up early and gingerly leaves the bed, careful not to disturb the still-sleeping John. He goes into the bathroom and stares at himself in the mirror, wonders what his dad would think if he knew what Paul was doing. 

When John finally wakes up, Paul’s already dressed. He looks away as John climbs out of bed and goes to shower. 

**Liverpool, England - 1962**

They go out to celebrate after recording Please Please Me, George Martin’s words still ringing in their ears. A number one record. It’s what they’ve been dreaming of ever since they met that day in 1957. 

John and Paul stumble home to Paul’s house after, careful to sneak up the stairs as quietly as possible. They fall into bed together, giggly and loose from the alcohol and adrenaline of the day. 

It escalates quickly. John climbs on top of Paul. Paul moans and starts tugging at John’s shirt. John sends both their clothes flying, their shirts, pants, and underwear hitting the floor in a succession of quiet thumps. John sucks at Paul’s neck, wants to leave a bruise that Paul won’t be able to ignore. He wants to own Paul, mark his territory. Paul writhes beneath him.

Then John slinks down Paul’s body, a feral grin lighting up his face. When he takes Paul’s cock in his mouth, Paul practically sobs. 

“Johnny,” he groans, wrinkling the sheets in his clenched fists. 

John coughs and gags when Paul comes. After it’s over, he sits up and wipes at the cum dribbling down his chin. Paul’s eyes are glassy as he beckons John forward. When he starts stroking John’s cock, his touch is tentative; John can tell he’s nervous. 

“It’s only me,” John reminds him. “You’re okay.” 

Paul’s grip tightens; he speeds up his pace. John comes with a start, a strangled groan clawing its way out of his throat. John lies down next to Paul and strokes his hair, whispers sweet words in his ear. 

The room’s still dark, but this time Paul lets John kiss him. 

**London, England - 1963**

They’re working on a song in the basement of Jane’s house on Wimpole Street. Sweet, loving Jane. The only uncomplicated thing in Paul’s hectic life. His fingers dance across the piano as he croons a love song meant for her.

His voice falters and dies off when John’s hand comes to rest warm and heavy on his thigh.

“Johnny, not here.”

“No one’s home. Your precious Jane won’t be back until later.” His breath is hot against Paul’s ear as he leans in. “I know you want me.”

Paul gives in to his baser instincts, allows John to shove him against the wall and tug his pants down. A guitar leaning against the wall falls to the ground with a thud and jarring clash of cords. John drops to his knees, palms Paul’s ass as he goes down on him, his nose coming to rest against the dark hair on Paul’s stomach. Paul’s hips buck forward.

It feels dirtier than it normally does, more explicit here in the basement of his girlfriend’s home. It’s harder to block out the infidelity, the illegality of it all when he’s letting John do _this_ to him right under Jane’s roof. 

But he’s never been able to resist John Lennon. 

Paul comes with a start and John swallows around him, licks him clean before sitting back on his haunches. 

Paul reaches out and hauls John to his feet, pushing him up against the wall. He returns the favor, dropping to his knees and taking John’s cock into his mouth. It makes Paul wrinkle his nose up and squeeze his eyes shut, but he knows John likes it. All Paul’s ever wanted to do is make John happy. 

When John comes, Paul manages to swallow most of it before coughing and letting the rest run down his chin. 

“Sorry,” he says as he drags a hand across his mouth. He stands up and his knees crack; John pulls him into a tender kiss. When they break apart, Paul looks away, his throat tightening. He leans against John, burying his face in John’s neck. “I know I’m not very good at that.” His voice is muffled by John’s shoulder. John starts to rub his back.

“I think you’re perfect. You don’t have to worry about performing and all that shit like we do with birds. It’s only me, and I always think you’re brilliant.” 

Paul nods against John’s neck before pulling away. He goes over to the piano without another word. John sits heavily beside him. The silence between them feels weighted and unfamiliarly tense. “Paul—”

“We shouldn’t do that here, not in Jane’s house. It isn’t right.” 

“No, c’mon, you’re always here. Where else are we supposed to do it?”

“I don’t know.”

Paul starts singing. They don’t talk about it anymore. 

**Key West, Florida - 1964**

The mighty storm rages outside. The windows rattle; palm trees bend like they’re made of rubber; the ocean roars. 

They drink because there’s nothing else to do. The room is uncomfortably hot. Only a few lamps are on and they throw shadows across the room. Ringo holds his glass up in a mock toast and it catches the light, sparkling like a diamond. 

The bottles pile up, cigarettes fill the ash trays. The entire night becomes a haze of booze. The wind howls outside like a lonesome dog. 

The tears come sometime close to midnight. They cling to each other, shaking in each others arms.

Paul holds onto John like he’s drowning and John is the only thing keeping him afloat. He hiccups and presses his nose into John’s neck hard enough to hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he says over and over again. “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” John reassures him each time. “I’m the one who started it. It’s okay.” 

They stumble back to their room, arms slung around each other, and fall into bed. 

Tears are still running down Paul’s cheeks as he climbs on top of John. When they kiss, all Paul can taste is salt and whiskey and stale cigarettes. John’s eyes are unfocused as he gazes up at him. 

Paul’s chest tightens. He lets out a nervous giggle that chokes off into a soft sob. 

This time they do it for real. 

It’s messy and uncoordinated. Paul nervously probes at John’s opening with his fingers, the Vaseline shining in the dim light coming from the lamp. He works one finger in and screws his eyes shut, waiting for John to cry out.

But John encourages him, assures him that it’s okay. 

“You won’t hurt me, it’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid; it’s only me. I’ll tell you if it hurts. It’s okay.” 

When Paul finally pushes himself in slowly, he holds his breath, wincing at the groan John lets out. He feels more tears pooling in his eyes. 

“I’m hurting you,” he cries, already starting to pull out, but John cradles Paul’s face in his hands and kisses him gently.

“It’s okay. You feel so good, baby. You’re so good.” 

Paul starts to move; John writhes beneath him, chanting Paul’s name. 

Paul comes first with a strangled shout. He finishes John off. They curl up in the bed, and John strokes Paul’s hair. “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much.” 

Paul rolls over and shivers as John’s arms loop around his waist. He stays silent, the only sound in the room the lonesome howling of the wind. 

**New York City, New York - 1965**

They’re waiting to leave for the helicopter that will take them to Shea Stadium. It’s oddly quiet in the hotel room. George and Ringo are whispering softly on the couch, twin cigarettes danglingfrom their mouths. John is jumpy and irritable, snapping at anyone who tries to talk to him. 

Paul goes to him, but John pushes him away — tells him to fuck off — before storming into their room and slamming the door. Paul feels George and Ringo’s eyes on him as he quietly follows.

In the bedroom, John’s lying facedown on the bed, a pillow slung over his head, his feet just barely hanging off the end. Paul sits and waits. 

John finally rolls over and narrows his eyes, glaring at Paul. He tells him to fuck off again, that he doesn’t want him here, he can take care of himself, he’s not a bloody bird. Paul nods, his face blank. John glares harder. 

“Can’t you just leave me alone for once? It’s pathetic how you’re always following me around like a stupid fucking puppy. Jesus, you’re not me damn mum, Paul. I don’t need you.” Paul nods again. 

“It’s okay to be nervous about the show. It’s only me. You can let your guard down. You don't have to pretend with me.” 

They lock eyes in a tense staring contest for several weighted seconds before John’s face softens and he reaches for Paul. 

“I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean those things right? You know I love you.” 

“I know.” Paul crawls into John’s arms and they lie there nose to nose, looking into each others eyes. 

They kiss then, slow and sensual in a way that makes Paul’s skin prickle. It’s so loving, so unlike how their kisses used to be. Now John’s kisses are slow and sweet. Paul’s chest aches. 

This time they don’t touch each other; they don’t really need to. Paul senses that this isn’t about sex or lust or wanting. This is about him and John and this _thing_ growing between them. 

“I love you,” John whispers against his lips, and Paul swallows the words away. 

“I know.” 

John keeps kissing him. Paul pushes away the guilt.

**Cincinnati, Ohio - 1966**

Paul is silent as he strips out of his suit and hangs it up in the hotel closet. John’s is in a heap on the floor, and Paul carefully hangs it next to his own, giving him something to do. If he stays in motion then everything will be fine — he can forget what happened in Memphis. The entire flight to Ohio, he was coiled tight, gripping his armrests until his knuckles turned white. He can feel the nervous energy starting to boil over.

He fights the sudden urge to pace. He feels like a caged animal, the walls closing in on him. 

John pulls him over to the bed and they climb in together, too exhausted to shower. Paul presses his ear to John’s chest, listens to his heartbeat. They’re silent for several minutes. Paul stares into the darkness, trying to forget.

“I thought you’d been shot,” he whispers. “On the stage, as soon as the firecracker went off, we all looked over at you. The fucking Klan was out front burning our records. I thought they’d killed you. They could’ve _killed you._ ” 

John chokes out a startled laugh and shakes his head.

“C’mon, don’t be so dramatic. It’s only me — nothing to worry yourself sick over. You’d survive if I died.” 

Paul shakes his head so violently that his forehead collides with John’s chin and they both hiss in pain. “What the fuck—”

“I wouldn’t make it without you,” Paul snaps. “I need you. Don’t you understand that? I _need you.”_

“Paul—”

Paul smashes his lips against John’s, cutting him off. Their teeth knock together; they gasp for breath. Paul claws at John’s shirt, pulling him closer, but never close enough. 

“You _cannot_ die,” he growls. “I will never get over it.” 

They kiss until sunrise. 

**London, England - 1967**

Paul shows up at Kenwood to work on a song, but John’s high again. 

He tries to hide his disappointment, asks John _why?_ Why he can’t stay sober for one fucking day, reminds him that they have work to do. John just shrugs and leans back against his pillow. 

“I need it. Can’t feel a thing without it. Not anything good, at least.” Paul looks away, stares at the cluttered wall full of John’s things. 

“Johnny,” he finally says softly, “don’t talk like that. I’m here for you. Don’t you… feel things… when we’re together?” 

“You’re the only one who makes me feel, but you don’t want me, not really. S’like you’re scared of me or something. It’s only me, Paul. I won’t hurt you.” 

Something twists in Paul’s chest and he moves to John like a magnet, reaching forward and dragging him into a frenzied kiss tinged with desperation. Paul holds John’s lapels so hard that his fingers hurt, afraid that, if he doesn't hold on, John will float away and never come back. 

They fuck on the couch, sunlight streaming in through the large windows in the sunroom. John looks angelic lying beneath him, and Paul forces himself to keep his eyes open; he wants to make sure he never forgets this moment.

He moves in and out of John with the urgency of a man facing the gallows. He pumps John’s cock so fast he’s afraid it may hurt. 

John lets out a startled cry and comes on Paul’s hand. His head tips to the side and his eyes flutter shut. He sighs contently. 

Paul’s orgasm pools painfully in his stomach; he grabs John’s arm and squeezes hard.

“John, Johnny, open your eyes,” he says in a rush. “Please. I want to see you. I need to see you.”

John’s eyes slide open.

Paul comes, sobbing John’s name. 

When he pulls out, he falls forward, suddenly dizzy. “Oh John,” he breathes. “I love you.” 

**Rishikesh, India - 1968**

Paul ends it in India. 

Nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas, secluded away in their little bungalows, mediating for hours on end — it’s cleansing, eye-opening. The music seems to flow out of them like a never-ending rush of water. 

But tensions simmer just below the surface. 

John snaps at Cynthia, coldly tells her he’s moving to his own room so he can have some space. Paul watches their painful exchanges, his heart aching for Cyn. 

He has a foreboding feeling that he’s next. 

Every morning, John scurries off to the post office to check for letters from _Yoko_. Even though she’s only a woman, in his mind Paul has built her up to be some black, menacing entity dragging John away. 

And slowly but surely John starts ignoring Paul too. Even when they write music together, there’s a barrier between them that didn’t used to exist. 

Paul walks around with a physical ache in his chest, stomach churning every time he sees John hunched over a stack of papers, eagerly reading them with a grin on his face. Jane tries to ask Paul what’s wrong, but he waves her away, tells her it’s nothing. 

But he knows she’s noticed the way he stares longingly at John. She asks him about it one night. They argue in hushed whispers; Jane shoves at Paul’s chest, spitting words like _queer_ and _shameful_ and _disgusting_ in his face. He storms out, sucks in lungfuls of air, hoping it’ll clear away the thoughts racing through his head. 

His feet carry him to John’s room on their own accord. He barges in, and John looks up from the guitar he’s quietly strumming. Several emotions pass over John’s face: surprise, confusion, concern, annoyance, anger.

“Did I tell you that you could just come barging into me room anytime you like?” he asks. “I’m trying to work.” He bows his head back over his guitar; Paul stalks over and grabs the guitar by it’s neck, jerking it out of John’s arms. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” he asks, his voice nearing a hysterical shout. “What’s _wrong with you?”_ John’s mouth drops open in surprise before he stands and gets in Paul’s face, his breath warm and minty against Paul’s cheek. 

“Don’t speak to me that way.” His voice is a dangerous whisper. Paul clenches his jaw, refuses to be intimidated. 

“What the fuck did I do to you? Are you punishing me or something?” Paul’s still shouting, so John grabs his arm and drags him out of the bungalow. Paul drops the guitar with a clatter. They go into the dark jungle. The only light is the pale full moon hanging in the sky. 

“Was your plan to wake everyone in the fucking ashram?” John hisses. Paul’s chest heaves as he rips his arm out of John’s grasp. 

“I don’t care. Jane already knows, thinks I’m fucking disgusting. Maybe I am.” Paul shakes his head and sharply turns his back so he doesn’t have to look at John. “I should’ve never let you talk me into _this_. If I could go back to Paris and tell you ‘no,’ I’d do it. You’ve fucking _ruined_ me.” 

John’s completely silent behind him. For a second Paul thinks he must have left. Then he gently takes Paul’s hand and turns him around.

“You don’t mean that,” he says softly. Paul pulls his hand away and hugs himself in a futile attempt to hold himself together. He stares into the jungle past John’s head.

“You’re falling in love with her.”

“What are you talking ab—”

“Christ! It’s only me, John. You don’t have to fucking lie to me. Please don’t lie to me.” 

“Okay, then yes.” He pauses. “I think maybe I already love her.” 

Paul knew what John was going to say, but it still feels like a sucker punch to the stomach. He takes an unsteady breath. 

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.” 

“Paul—”

“Please don’t.” 

John moves to him anyway, cups his face and kisses him hard. Paul grunts softly when his back hits a scratchy tree. He grabs ahold of John’s shirt and hangs on for dear life. John devours him, bites at his neck so sharply that Paul cries out in pain. John swallows the noise with his mouth. 

One minute they’re consuming each other, eating each other alive, then they’re not. John steps back, the light glinting off his granny glasses as he straightens his clothes. 

“I love you, Paul.” 

Paul stays standing against the tree, nods dumbly as John starts to walk away. 

“I love you too,” he calls to John’s retreating back. John doesn’t turn around. Paul sinks to the ground and stares up at the moon. 

**London, England - 1969**

Twickenham Film Studios is cold and uncomfortably large — void of the comfort Paul always feels at Abbey Road. 

His band mates’ blank stares are equally cold. John’s eyes follow Paul as he paces. 

“What the fuck are we even doing here?” he finally snaps. “It seems like I’m the only one who wants to get any work done. We’ve got a live performance coming up; we have to get ready.”

John smirks and lights up a cigarette. 

“Well, why don’t you get to work then? Make it Mr. McCartney’s One Man Band. That’s all it really is anymore.” John takes a long drag and shrugs innocently. Paul opens and closes his mouth, squeezes his fists. 

“I’m here to make music. It’s supposed to be about the music. It’s _always_ been about the music. What happened?” 

“Maybe the rest of us have grown out of it, Paulie. I get that you want to prance around as Beatle Paul for the rest of your life, but some of us have better things to do.” 

“Fuck you,” Paul spits. “You’re right, I don’t fucking need you.” 

“Oh really?” John drawls. “You know it’s _Lennon_ and McCartney for a reason, luv.”

Paul leaves the room in a flash, makes a beeline to the bathroom where he vomits in the sink, clings to the linoleum countertop to keep from falling over. His ears are dully ringing; his head spins. 

Then John walks in, raising his eyebrows at Paul as he walks to the urinal. 

“Alright there, son?” 

Paul doesn’t answer, just goes about rinsing first the sink and then his mouth out. He jumps when he feels John’s breath on the back of his neck. “Paul. Look at me.” Paul turns and meets John’s eyes. 

He slides his granny glasses down low on his nose and steadily holds Paul’s gaze. “It’s only me.” 

They end up doing it in the bathroom. It’s uncomfortable without proper lube. John sucks Paul’s cock, tries to get him nice and slick. Paul works John open with shaking hands. He takes John from behind, presses John against the stall. He can’t look at John, not this time. 

John comes first, spilling into Paul’s fist. Paul soon follows. He leans his forehead against John’s shoulder. 

“I love you.” Paul knows it’s not enough, but he whispers it anyway. “I love you so much, Johnny. I always have. I’m sorry I was so afraid to say it.” John makes a small hiccuping sound and turns to face Paul. This close, Paul can see his eyelashes are wet.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. I love you too.” 

“But you love her more.” Paul’s voice comes out steadier than he feels. John’s eyes dart away and he nods. 

“Yeah I do.”

**New York City, New York - 1976**

The last time they do it is at John’s Dakota apartment. Yoko and Sean are in California. Paul shows up on John’s doorstep, guitar in hand. John stares at him. 

“You can’t keep showing up like this, Paul.” 

“It’s the last time I’ll be in New York for a while. I just wanted to see you.” 

John steps aside and lets Paul walk in. He’s never been able to resist Paul McCartney. 

They go to the couch, and John sits close enough to feel the heat radiating off Paul’s body.

“Are you sure you didn’t come to beg me to work with you again? Because the answer’s still no.” Paul looks away, bites his lip.

“I dunno. Just came to make some music, I guess. I’ve been feeling a bit down lately, thought maybe seeing you would cheer me up.” 

John’s chest tightens, a little taken aback by Paul’s sudden, blatant honesty. 

“I’m sorry,” he says uselessly. Paul just shrugs and hesitantly lies down, curling into the fetal position with his head in John’s lap. John strokes his hair, coughs to clear the lump in his throat.

They end up in the bedroom, stripping down to their boxers. John gently spoons Paul, holds him like he may break into thousands of tiny pieces if John isn’t careful.

“I can feel myself… slipping,” he says after a while. “Y’know, back into that place I was in after The Beatles. Linda’s noticed. She’s the one who suggested I come see you.” He nervously gnaws on his lip.

“Does she know…” 

“No. I’ve never told her. Didn’t really see a reason to.” 

“Yoko knows.” 

Paul stiffens in John’s arms, and John rubs his back. “I’m sorry. She and I don’t keep secrets from each other.” 

“Neither do Linda and I.” Paul’s voice is defensive until he falters and sighs. “I dunno. I guess I wanted it to be something that belonged only to us.” Paul closes his eyes and presses his face into John’s neck. John holds him tighter. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Instead of replying, Paul pulls John on top of him, and John can the feel the unmistakeable bulge of an erection pressed against his thigh. As Paul strains his neck upward to kiss him, John claps his hands down on Paul’s shoulders, halting his movements. “Paul,” he cautions. 

“Please John. I want you to take me. Please.” Paul’s voice cracks. John shivers.

“Are you sure? We’ve never—”

“I’m sure.” 

It takes what feels like hours to prep Paul. John’s fingers are greasy and wet with lube as he carefully works him open, cooing sweet words of encouragement every time he feels Paul tense beneath him.

He rubs Paul’s stomach to soothe him once he finally starts pushing in. Paul turns his head and screws his eyes shut. John pauses, massages little circles into one of Paul’s hipbones with his thumb. 

“Hey, it’s only me. I promise I won’t hurt you baby.”

John pushes in the rest of the way and starts to move. Paul fists the sheets in his hands, arching his back. John starts to stroke Paul in time with his thrusts. 

“Johnny,” Paul groans. “Please. I love you.”

“I love you too.” John can feel himself getting closer. He tries to hold it back. “I’m sorry it’s not enough.” 

After they finish, they lie there facing each other, nose to nose. Paul’s eyes sparkle in the sunlight.

A few hours later, they embrace for the last time. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was weirdly hard to write but I had fun doing it. 
> 
> Hope it was halfway decent lmao.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!


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